A 20-year-old girl wants to buy a good mascara and doesn’t have 25 euros to spare. It’s discouraging, almost oppressive. She wants to wink at the world with flappy black eyelashes but can’t. Her family is absent physically, emotionally, alcoholically, it’s a vicious straight line. And it can take half a day to make that kind of dough.
So if a man who showers and has teeth comes along and buys the cosmetic product and throws in a sundress for good measure, the girl will put things in her mouth with smacking and slurping noises. There’s a sense of overwhelming economic relief followed by gratitude: “It’s the least I can do, mister.” Better still, he hires her. He owns an ice cream parlor and lets her scoop. He trusts her with something in the real world. She shakes with horniness so much they have to move her to smoothies.
Don’t be appalled, as there are 18 essential items in a woman’s makeup kit:
- Primer
- Concealer
- Foundation
- Blush
- Setting powder
- Mascara
- Eyeshadow
- Eyeliner
- Lipstick
- Lip gloss
- Lip liner
- Powder brush
- Blush brush
- Eyeshadow brush
- Crease brush
- Eyeliner brush
- Blending sponge
- Tweezers
I have no idea what these things are, but she needs new ones every year. And that’s just the face. Now come the hair, the nails, the skin, the nether parts. Woman’s body is a temple, a derelict Gothic church apparently.
So it hurts when you fall in love with this girl and can’t afford the dress. Or you can, but don’t take a hint she would like one. She has no choice but to find somebody with a more perceptive wallet. This next guy buys five dresses, but she sleeps with five more guys because she likes the excitement of the pursuit, the novelty, the vulnerability, the morning tiptoeing escapes, and the clever text messages.
From 18 to 25 it’s one boyfriend a month, that’s 96 times flirting, call expecting, playing with hair at dinner, mooning in stairwells, stripping in hallways, orgasmic squealing on sweaty beds, floors, tables, in cars, and trees. An average paleontologist would have to live longer than the age of the fossil he brushes to experience that, but these overachievers don’t stop until demand drops to zero, and then they restart the game with lasers, injections, peelings, massages, suctions, subcisions, implants, and all the rest of cyborg paraphernalia.
Sex feels amazing, it’s normal and natural, why would anybody stop or limit themselves to one set (or kind) of genitals. But the frickin’ love gets in the way. It’s like having eaten six plum dumplings. They are delicious and you are sated. Then your cook starts making them for others, the culinary job hopper that she is. You can find a new cook, but when you do, the stomach fullness doesn’t go away. Now you have to force-feed yourself with the dumplings.
SNEAKY SQUEAKY wasn’t a gold digger. One, she told me she wasn’t. And two, whenever she found a man who could be considered rich, to keep herself centered, she would sleep with someone from a low station in life afterwards.
Furthermore, real gold diggers are extremely rare. Most are impulsive and easily amused. They will do stuff for the perceived charisma of the man of means, but once basic cosmetics, clothing, and a decent phone have been secured, they risk immediately what they built for themselves and go astray. And some men are pushovers (Hello!) and will buy more expensive gifts the more the woman whorificates herself.
